Pots and Kettles
by CarpalTunnelLove
Summary: Formerly "The First Ten" . The early days of the acquaintance of the Scarecrow, master of fear, and the Riddler, prince of puzzles. Rated T for eminent language/themes. May become M.
1. One

The First Ten

ONE:

_CRASH!_

Jonathan whirled around just in time to see a streak of green and orange come hurtling through the newly smashed sunroof and land with a curse and a soft _THUMP_ in the piles of straw below. He sighed, set down _Gray's Anatomy_, and stalked toward the intruder, tugging his mask down over his face. It would not do for this person, whomever he was, to be greeted by anyone other than the Scarecrow.

It was a man, younger than Jonathan by at least five years, ginger-haired and pale, wearing a tacky bright green suit. He at first he didn't seem to notice Jonathan, opting instead to search for his hat (having apperantly lost it during the fall). A patient man, Jonathan waited for him to find it (a garish green bowler emblazoned with a question mark) before clearing his throat pointedly.

The intruder froze. His eyes travelled up Jonathan's long legs, growing wider with each inch. Finally, their gazes met. His eyes were dark green, framed by a violet domino mask.

"Uh...I do hate to..._drop in _unannounced, but..." He stood cautiously, never breaking eye contact, "...There was a _bat _in my bellfry." He looked Jonathan up and down again.

"I understand you've had the same problem." His sheepish smile revealed a small gap between his front teeth.

By all rights, Jonathan should have gassed him right then, or toyed with him a bit first, or at least _tried_ to live up to his reputation a _little_. But for reasons he did not know or understand, he simply pointed with a needle-clawed hand.

"Out."

The ginger did not need to be told twice.


	2. Two

TWO:

Frankly, Eddie believed that genius deserved a certain level of respect. He therefore did _not_ appreciate being manhandled by brutish philistines. However, his entire life was beginning to seem like one big manhandling session interspersed with breif interludes.

Today's philistines came courtesy of Arkham Asylum. They half-marched, half-dragged him down the dingy hall, passing cell after cell of degenerates and psychopaths. Although he was, at least, grouped in with the so-called 'super-criminals' rather than the usual chattel.

After what seemed like hours, the brutish guards finally haulted. The door took more time than he would've personally preferred to unlock and spring open with the usual mechanical buzzing noise.

And he certainly did _not_ appreciate being shoved inside with such force that he came devilishly close to falling over. He shouted as much-or something to that effect-through the door's wide, reinforced glass pane as the imbiciles retreated back up the hall.

"Taunting them from this distance is quite futile."

_Where have I heard that voice before?_ Eddie turned slowly to face his cellmate, seated on the bunk to his left. The other man's brows drew ever so slightly closer together.

"You." The word was cool, with only the faintest trace of accusation behind it.

"Me," Eddie replied, equally cooly. "Have we met?"

The man studied him for a moment, and Eddie studied him. He was into his fourties, tall and stick-thin, with an ocean of freckles strewn across his pale skin and rather horsey face. Ice-blue eyes glittered coldly from behind wire-rimmed glasses and a scraggly mop of dark hair threaded with gray. _I know those eyes, too._

"You crashed through my roof." _Oh._ Eddie felt himself beginning to grin. _Finally, someone interesting._

"Scarecrow, I presume? Jonathan Crane?" The other man nodded serenely.

"And you are Edward Nigma. I believe you've been calling yourself the _Riddler_."

He extended a long-fingered hand. Eddie took it. But he hadn't missed the slight air of mocking with which Crane had said _'the Riddler'_.

"I am pleased to meet you under less..._Heated_ circumstances." His fingers tightened slightly around Eddie's. Icy eyes bored into his. "I trust that I will not be pestered at all hours by your little _riddles_."

Eddie wasn't that easy to cow. "And I trust that I won't recieve the same treatment as your last three cellmates."

A tiny, cold smile twisted Crane's thin mouth.

"Then we understand each other."

"_Perfectly_."


	3. Three

THREE:

Conversation, at first, proved a challenge. It was necessary to fight off the sheer _boredom _of incarceration, but there were only so many things to talk about. Jonathan made it clear from day one that under no circumstances would he be willing to discuss his childhood-or, for that matter, anything before he came to Gotham City. Edward, disappointingly, proved to be of the same mind. That was of little consequence, though; Jonathan would get it out of him eventually. Once he did, he would then decide whether Nigma would make a satisfying 'patient.'

After two days of conversation, Jonathan had made precious little progress. His reputation, it seemed, preceded him; while Nigma was obviously bursting to deliver the three-hour version of his autobiography, he was also wary of any question that carried the faintest whiff of psychologist about it.

With the available topics of discussion thus limited, they often found themselves discussing one anothers' exploits both in and outside Arkham.

"And the last guy?"

Jonathan shrugged dismissively. The last had been the least amusing of his three previous cellmates. "Homophobic. _Seriously_ homophobic. _That_ one was too...Dull for my tastes."

Edward laughed. "And a little too hands-on, I expect." He cocked his head to one side, looking suddenly suspicious. "You _didn't_, did you?"

Jonathan didn't have to ask what. "No. Why?"

"Why do you _think_?"

"I would think because you're-"

Nigma cut him off. "If you're going to say _gay_, don't, 'cause I'm not." He shifted on his bunk, clearly ill at ease. "I just happen to be a little more..._Flexible_ in my...associations. Besides, rapists don't _do it_ to you 'cause you _like_ it."

Jonathan quirked an eyebrow. _Another fragment, Edward. Just keep adding... _"From what I've heard, 'flexible' is a a bit of an understatement." Edward glared.

"Shut up. And that's all I've got to say about that; I don't want to talk about my sex life with _you_."

"And I don't want to _hear_ about your sex life," Jonathan lied.

"Good," Nigma replied curtly.

"Fine."

_That's alright, Edward. Just keep adding. A line here, a stroke there, and soon I shall have the entire portrait. And then you will be due for a session with the Scarecrow._


	4. Four

FOUR:

"Riddle me this-"

"No."

Eddie huffed, glaring at Crane's back across the tiny room. He _had _to get this one out of his head. It was a _good_ one. Luckily, he'd learned which buttons to push.

"_Pleeeease?_" He whined, drawing out the word. Crane sighed, not even bothering to roll over and face him.

"Fine."

Eddie grinned.

"_I've been with you your whole life. I've done nothing to you but you still hate me sometimes. Rage at me and I'll just rage back. I'll mock you, taunt you, but I always follow your lead and I'll never leave you. What am I?" _

Silence from the other bunk. Eddie grinned wider. He opened his mouth but Crane cut him off.

"I'm thinking."

After a moment, Crane answered. Eddie frowned.

"I worked hard on that one," he pouted.

"I could almost tell." The other man began to sit up. Eddie hurriedly began inspecting his glasses so as to appear indifferent. "And I could hear the pout in your voice, so don't insult us both by acting like you don't care."

Eddie put his glasses back on. _Damn you._ Crane's thin mouth was curled in a smirk.

"Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself," Eddie snapped. The smirk only widened. He changed the subject before Crane could say something infuriating. "What were you thinking about, anyway?"

That struck the smile off his freckled face.

"None of your business," came the chilly reply, complete with an icy look from those eerie, pale eyes.

"You were thinking about your childhood, weren't you? Or something else you won't talk about?" Maybe today would be the day Eddie could finally wheedle something out of him.

"Did you ever think that perhaps there's a _reason_ for that?"

"And what reason would that be?" He had long ago decided that generalities were better than nothing.

"The same reason you won't talk about your infatuation with Two-Face."

Eddie felt himself flush. _Bitch, you did __**not**__ just go there._

"That's not even true! And if it was, it'd still be none of your damn business."

"Exactly. And my past is none of yours." Crane hissed. "Besides, it _is _true. Otherwise you wouldn't have gone that _fascinating_ shade of pink."

Eddie glared.

"It's...It's not even an _infatuation_ anyway, I'm only-I just..." He was fumbling with words. Words _never_ failed him, and yet here he was, floundering. _Damn you, Crane. And damn you Dent, with your shoulders and your blue eyes. _"It's just that I-"

"-Want to abscond with him and have lots of sex and babies."

His face was _bright red_, he could feel it.

"...Shut up." _Bitch._


	5. Five

FIVE:

The Rec Room was dingy, dirty, and filled with broken plastic furniture. There was, however, a complete (though mismatched) chess set in one corner, and this was where Edward Nigma could usually be found. Today, Jonathan was bored enough to sit with him (though not to play him), though Edward was distracted. He tended to fret, as Jonathan had learned, and he was fretting now.

Jonathan sighed. "What about Harley Quinn? You can't possibly have failed to notice her making eyes at you for the last week."

Edward ran thin fingers through his ginger hair. "I know, and she's fairly easy on the eyes, but I have no desire to get my ass kicked by Joker." His mossy-green eyes darted to the corner where the scarred clown was currently dealing poker.

_Oh, for god's sake._ Jonathan rolled his eyes.

"Will you stop that?"

"What?"

"You've been looking over there every five seconds for the last thirty minutes."

The ginger arched an eyebrow. "So?" His indifferent tone fooled no-one, least of all Jonathan.

"So, if you keep doing that, he's going to come over here, and I do _not_ want to deal with that much undiluted crazy this early in the afternoon."

"Pots and kettles, Jonathan."

"Which are _you_?"

"Oh shut up," Edward snapped. The man proved rather testy when his sanity or intelligence was slighted. "And _Joker_ is the one who keeps looking at _me_." He bit his lip-something he did, Jonathan noted, when he was about to say something that made him anxious. _Bits and pieces, Edward. Tell by tell..._

"You don't think he thinks it's mutual, do you? Me and Harley?"

Jonathan bit back a laugh. _For one who claims to be a genius, you are such a fool. _Something must have showed on his face, because Edward's brows knitted.

"What?"

"He's not thinking of Harley. Well, he is, but not how you think. _Open your eyes_, Edward. Look at him-No, I know I said not to, just humor me. Look at him. The _way_ he looks at you, and when, and how he reacts when he notices you're looking."

Jonathan took rather more pleasure in watching the so-called Prince of Puzzles flounder with a conundrum infinitely simpler than any crossword. After about a minute, Edward's brows shot up.

"_Oh_." His shoulders sagged, an expression of exasperation forming on his pale face. "Oh Hell."

"Now tell me why. _If_ you can." Jonathan took a perverse, sadistic joy in putting Edward through his paces, so to speak.

"He...He and Harley are fighting. That's why she's been..._You know_. She wants to make the Clown jealous...And now Joker wants to make _her_ jealous so..." He raked a hand through his hair.

On the inside, the part of Jonathan that was Scarecrow was giggling madly. On the outside, he was contented to smirk as Edward slumped forward in utter exasperation.

"_Why me_? I mean, I know I'm devilishly handsome and essentially the most intelligent person in the entire asylum-" _Second at best_, Jonathan thought. "-But for god's sake, why _Joker_?"

"You want _my_ diagnosis?"

Edward nodded, face still buried in his arms.

_You're a childish little slut with delusions of grandeur and a __**serious **__case of Histrionic Personality Disorder._ But instead Jonathan said, "It's because everyone knows you're easy and he's been in here too long."

Edward raised his head to glare through his rectangular glasses.

"...I hate you."

"No you don't, or you would've tried to kill me by now." _And I pay you too much attention for you to want me gone._

Edward's scowl deepened.

"You're such a dick."

"Must be why you like me so much."

Edward's right hand spasmed and Jonathan knew the ginger was itching to slap him. Instead, he pushed back from the table and, with a final ugly look at Jonathan, marched off in the direction of the Joker.

_Drama queen._

Jonathan smirked. For one so shameless, Nigma reacted rather poorly to aspersions cast on his...Activities. And that last riddle, the one that meant "a reflection," presented a fascinating contradiction. A narcissist such as Nigma, and yet his riddle of reflections had such a negative cast to it. It spoke only of 'hating' and 'mocking,' never of admiration or any other positive emotion that a mirror should evoke for a self-absorbed person like the Riddler.

_That is quite the contradiction. The narcissist with a negative self-image. He should do Starburst commercials._

One more piece of the puzzle. The man wore his emotions on his sleeve and since day one Jonathan had been able to read him like a book. But the volume was still incomplete.

_Give me a little more, Edward, and I'll have everything I'll ever need to crack your mind wide open. _


	6. Six

SIX:

Jonathan had never appreciated being awakened. His hand flew to Nigma's throat while he was still half-asleep. His brain clicked on and he released the ginger. It was hard to tell, but in the darkness Nigma could be grinning.

"Guess what, Jonathan?" Came the gleeful half-whisper. Jonathan sat up, groaning as thin fingers pressed his glasses into his hand.

"What do you want?" He groaned. "If you've woken me for one of your stupid riddles-"

"They are not _stupid_, and I haven't. Also you're going to want to get ready because in about thirty seconds it's going to get very loud and very bright."

Jonathan stood wearily, his bones a symphony of stiff cracking.

Nigma was right, it turned out.

...

"What did you _do?_"

Jonathan had to bite back a laugh, but he couldn't fight the grin. His long strides easily kept up with Nigma's shorter, hurried ones as the two dashed down the side corridor to what the lesser rabble called the 'Chamber of Confiscation.'

The door was heavy but had only a keypad for security. Nigma's fingers flew and in a matter of seconds it bleeped and swung open.

But even through his excitement, Nigma was irritatingly pleased with himself. He was talking so fast and in such technical gibberish that Jonathan only caught one word in ten. 'Encryption', 'idiots,' 'server,' and 'mainframe' were about all he could pick out.

"Edward," he hissed, "Shut up and get to the point." The ginger glared at him over the dark green trousers he was holding. _Wasn't his suit __**bright **__green?_

"Long story short, up is down, docs are locked up and the inmates are free, now I suggest you go grab what you need and then we get the hell out of here." Before Jonathan could say anything else, the ginger took off down the hallway and out of sight.

Jonathan sighed and began to poke around in search of his own clothing. it would, he admitted, feel good to finally be out of the shapeless, dark red jumpsuit that passed for a uniform in this accursed place.

Most of his clothes were there, as well as his supply of fear gas, but the mask was torn so badly that the top two-thirds came off in his hands and the hat was nowhere to be found. He settled for fixing the mask around his nose and mouth and popping the collar of his trench coat up around his face.

He met little resistance on his way out, though from the quality of the lighting he surmised that a police barricade was already forming around the main entrance/exit. He cursed under his breath.

"_Here!_" Nigma's voice hissed behind him. He turned and immediately raised an eyebrow. In place of the expected garish green suit, the Riddler had apparently been apprehended wearing only his glasses, dark green jeans, and Doc Martins; he was still wearing the asylum-issue white t-shirt.

"Shut up," Nigma hissed, seeing his expression, "Bat caught me after hours, okay?"

There was a volley of sound and something-several .45 caliber somethings-thudded into the concrete behind Jonathan. He ducked instinctively around the corner. Nigma swore inventively and darted around after him. A glimmer of fear showed beneath the annoyance on his face. He rifled through his pockets for a moment and cursed again. Jonathan, however, unhooked a small, round object from his belt; he had created these for just such an occasion. He twisted the tab on the lid and rolled it around the corner.

Nigma elbowed him. Jonathan turned. Nigma mouthed the word _'Gas?'_ Jonathan shook his head.

He counted down silently.

_Three...Two...One..._ A few sharp zipping sounds, two screams, and two heavy _THUDs_. Nigma grinned and darted out before Jonathan could stop him.

He emerged a moment later wearing an Arkham guard's jacket, carefully plucking one of Scarecrow's barbed darts out of the lapel.

"I was cold," he explained. Then he pointed. "Go out that way, there's a door. Keep your head down and you'll be fine; I'll be along in a minute."

Jonathan swallowed his pride at being ordered around by _him_ and hurried off down the indicated hallway.

The door opened into trees. Jonathan crept through them until he came to a gravel path with a question mark sprayed on the ground in bright green paint.

A shout of "Crane!" made him turn.

Nigma was back, crouching beside an olive green motorcycle. He tossed something, and Jonathan caught it on pure reflex.

"There's a comlink in there so we can hear-"

It was a helmet. He tossed it back at once.

"No."

Nigma let out an exasperated groan, rolling his eyes.

"Jon-"

"_No._ You are going to kill us both." He stalked closer, ducking down to avoid the beam of a searchlight. He had no issue with motorcycles, but his trust in the Riddler's driving ability was about as great as his desire to marry Killer Croc. "Whose _is_ it?"

"Does it matter?" Nigma hissed, hunched over the contraption's handlebars.

"_Yes,_" Jonathan hissed back,"How do you know that it doesn't belong to some-"

"Because it's _mine!" _Nigma shot back, mounting the infernal thing, "Okay? It's _mine_. Get on, or by the Nine, I will _leave you here_."

Jonathan wasn't going to give up that easily, nor was he going to let this little man intimidate him. No way in _Hell_ was he trusting Nigma to drive the contraption and not crash. He took a deep breath and put his Scarecrow voice on.

"_Now you just-_" Nigma's thin hand shot out, seized the front of his ragged trench coat, and yanked him down close.

"Now _you_ just," he growled through bared teeth, nose-to-nose with the Master of Fear, "_Get... On... The... __**Bike**__!_"

Jonathan scowled under his mask. _Very cute, Edward._

"_Fine_."

Nigma shoved the helmet at him. Jonathan took it grudgingly. He watched Nigma's skinny fingers pull his own helmet on before doing the same. He gave the bike a final glare before climbing on behind him.

The engine roared to life. Jonathan had just enough time to grab the ginger about the waist before they shot forward like a bat out of hell.

_Speaking of bats,_ Jonathan thought, trying to ignore how very _fast_ they were going, _Where could... _He decided not to think about that at the moment, opting instead to ponder this intriguing development in Nigma's character.

_Bit of an adrenaline junkie_, he mused, _Though not outright reckless or he would've done without the helmet. Still guarding that precious brain of his._

Gravel flew, sparse trees rushed past, and soon yellowish streetlights began to shine through in flashes and the ground shifted into asphalt. His fingers tightened involuntarily around Nigma's thin waist.

"_Relax_," the ginger's voice crackled in his ear. _Comlink. Right. Oh, joy. "I'm not going back into the city; there's a bridge out here."_

The path ahead bent sharply to the right. Nigma wasn't slowing down. Jonathan tightened his grip on purpose this time.

_"No-"_

_"Yes!"_ Nigma growled as he drifted insanely around the turn, the motorcycle almost horizontal and sliding sideways on its tires. Jonathan let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as the road straightened out and Nigma righted the vehicle, slowing mercifully.

_"I __**dare **__you to do that again!"_

_"Lean the way I lean, damn it!"_

_"__**I know how to do this**__! But you drive like a maniac!"_

_"Do __**you**__ wanna drive this thing?"_

Jonathan was about to answer 'yes' when two things happened almost at once.

There was the sound of honed metal slicing through air. Then a gasp of pain as a batarang sprouted from Nigma's thigh.


	7. Seven

SEVEN:

"_Do __**you**__ wanna drive this thing?"_

And suddenly pain tore through his leg, gone in an instant in his adrenaline-flooded state. He dared to glance down and immediately wished hadn't. He'd seen blood many times and it no longer bothered him, but the bike swerved dangerously and he snapped to correct it.

_"I am __**not**__ dying with you!"_ Crane's voice crackled, his bony fingers digging painfully into Eddie's hips.

"_Then shut up and let me-"_

The next batarang whizzed right past his visor. He chanced a glance backward, and there was the Bat on his own Batcycle.

An idea popped into his head, just stupid enough to work.

_"Take control," _he demanded.

"_What?" _

"_Your arms are long enough, __**take control**__!"_

"_No they're __**not**__! Why don't you-"_

Edward kicked backward, catching Crane in the shin. _"Do __**you **__have a gun?" _

"_Yes!"_

_"Oh. Then why the hell didn't you-"_ Crane cut him off rather effectively by yanking the pistol from its position in Eddie's waistband and (he could feel) leaning around to shoot at Batman._**I **__should've thought of that._

"_How did you even-Have you been looking at my-" _

Crane whacked him in the shoulder with the butt. _"Don't flatter yourself, I could feel it."_ He cracked off another few shots.

Eddie could see the bridge in the distance, feel the safe haven that waited beyond. But they had to get to it first, and that was proving more difficult than anticipated.

_"Tell me you're not trying to shoot through that body armor of his,"* _Eddie growled through clenched teeth. The leg was beginning to throb unpleasantly and soon the pain would peek through. Crane made a scoffing noise.

_"I am not an idiot. I'm __**aiming**__,"_ he growled, _"For his __**tires.**__" _

There was a series of shots, a queer truncated popping sound, and Eddie looked back just in time to see the Batcycle, front tire in shreds, wobbling dangerously before tipping, sending both Bat and Cycle skidding across the pavement.

_"Nice."_ The next sound out of him was an embarrassingly high gasp as pain knifed through his injured leg.

_"Oh god that hurts,"_ he gasped, _"Why didn't he hit __**you**__?" _

Crane scoffed again. _"Ingrate."_

At last, they zoomed over the bridge, planks thudding beneath the bike's tires.

_"...How bad is it?" _Eddie hissed. He was beginning to feel a little out of sorts.

_"Just concentrate on getting us to your safe house." _The calm, almost gentle tone Crane was using only disturbed him more.

_ "That bad?"_ He slowed; if he was going to pass out, he wasn't going to pass out going seventy miles an hour. The road was ragged here, as well as booby-trapped, and Eddie took solace in the careful precision required to navigate.

Crane's bony hands pressed into his thigh, around the batarang. He bit back a yelp of pain and was about to ask what the _hell_ he was doing when the low voice hissed, _"If you keep bleeding like this, you are going to have a very bad time."_

Right. He should've thought of that.

By the time he turned into the vast park of dilapidated storehouses, Eddie was _definitely _ lightheaded. He pulled off between two broken streetlamps before he could topple the bike. His helmet was suddenly stifling; he yanked it off, dropping it carelessly aside. He could feel Crane doing the same behind him, but when he tried to dismount the ground lurched under him. He fell heavily back into the seat, cradling his spinning head.

"You're gonna...Have to help me up, Jonathan." At least breathing wasn't yet difficult.

"And why shouldn't I just leave you here?"

Eddie scowled, squinting up at him. "Because you'll die if you go in the wrong building. And even if you choose correctly, my system will kill you if it doesn't see me." Crane's face was impossible to read-the dim, orange light from the few working lights threw most of the fallen doctor's face into shadow.

But after a moment, Crane hooked bony hands under his arms and pulled him upright. Again the world lurched but he managed to swing his injured leg off the motorcycle and fall against Crane.

"I don't like this at all," he mumbled. He tried to put weight on the leg, but it gave under him at once. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.

A scrawny arm looped under his own, but when he tried to lead, Crane held fast.

"You're going to make it worse," he hissed, "Lean on me and just _tell_ me where we're going."

There was no sense in arguing.

"S-see the big one with the question mark on the door?"

"I can hardly_ miss _it," Crane snapped.

"Good. The one next to it-the far one." The world lurched again. "Should I be in a hospital?"

"You haven't lost _that_ much blood yet. You're just..."

"...Sort of a weakling, yeah, I've been told."

Crane shifted him. He lost the next few seconds to pain and tasted blood as he bit his lip against a scream.

"What's the code?" They had come to the door without Eddie even realizing. He clutched at Crane's coat, as his knees were growing weaker by the second.

"Hurts," he choked, "God, that hurts."

"The _code, _Edward." His eyes looked golden and terrifying in the orange lamplight.

He shoved through the haze in his brain. "_Ah_...one, zero..." He gasped out the last digits, "One-nine-four-seven, _oh god just let me die here_..."

"_Hush_," Crane hissed, and Eddie tried to focus on the long fingers punching luminous green numbers into the keypad, "You just have a low pain threshhold, you're fine."

"N-no I'm _not_..." He let Crane lead him through the door, dragging his leg. "I am _not _fine, there's a _hole_ in my leg!"

"No there isn't."

"Yes there is, but there's a batarang in it..." He yelped as his foot dragged over a lump in the rough, concrete floor, jarring his injured leg. "Stop," He gasped out, "Just leave me here."

"What?"

"You heard me, damn you, put me _down!_"

"Your tolerance for pain is astounding." But Crane bent his knees and set him down.

Eddie tried to sit up, failed, and simply collapsed. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe regularly, the concrete cold against his skin.

_Breathe. breathe, breathe, ithurtssomuchmakeitstop-No, breathe..._ The door slammed shut; after a few seconds, there was a click and the lights flickered into life, shining through his eyelids.

He heard Crane kneel beside him.

"You lied about the security system." It didn't make sense, security what?

"_Huh?" _

"You said something would kill me if you weren't here. You lied." Fingers touched his leg.

"Wh...What are you-" Something nudged the batarang and his eyes flew open. "_I did, I lied I'm sorry, don't-"_

He choked on his own cry, choked on pain, clutching at something rough that might have been a coat as someone murmured that everything was fine, that it would be over soon, that it wasn't that deep...

"...If you'll excuse me," Eddie gasped out as the blade in his thigh shifted again, "I'm going to pass out now..."


	8. Eight

EIGHT:

Much to Jonathan's dismay, the Riddler did not keep his word. The ginger continued to yelp and curse at him as he slid him carefully across the little room, through a door that he sincerely hoped contained a first aid kit. He was not disappointed.

The little room let out into a vast chamber, well-lit and obsessively clean. A long section to his left was curtained off with heavy plastic sheeting.

"There?" He asked quietly. Nigma nodded weakly and Jonathan decided to forego any attempt at delicacy and simply scooped him up and carried him through. He murmured apologies in response to the choked gasp of pain from the injured man. Loathe as he was to admit it, the situation necessitated that he be as gentle as was convenient, lest Nigma lash out at him in his hazy state. If he did that, he'd lose too much time and blood. The seat of the motorcycle had cut off a good amount of circulation to Nigma's leg, slowing the bleeding, but it was already beginning to return.

Behind the sheeting was an almost unsettlingly clean area retrofitted with furnishings and supplies Nigma had probably stolen from hospitals.

"Well, let it never be said that you ever _settled_..."

Jonathan laid him out atop the tall table at the center and began to more thoroughly examine the leg. It really _wasn't_ that deep, but the blade was shaped in such a way that it was best to slide it carefully out along the curve, rather than simply yank it out and potentially tear a chunk from Nigma's leg. Mercifully, Nigma's low tolerance for pain meant that he was effectively paralyzed with agony and wouldn't thrash as Jonathan worked the batarang free.

Nigma's hands were the most active part of him at the moment. The moment Jonathan touched the batarang, the thin fingers seized his coat, the grip reassuringly strong.

"_Don't,_" Nigma whimpered, "_Stop it, don't touch..."_ A lesser man would have crumpled in pity at the pathetic sound, but Jonathan's hands were already slick with blood and there was no time for mercy. If he didn't get control of this soon, Nigma would go into shock, and then...

The blade came free with a splatter of dark blood. Jonathan felt his coat sleeve rip as Nigma's hands jerked.

"_There's so much blood...Please, dad, don't..."_ came the groggy whimper. _Fascinating._

The sound the Riddler made when he began to clean the gash could almost have passed for a scream. But being something of a connoisseur of screams, Jonathan heard it as more of a choked wail. But that was alright, he mused, there would be plenty of time for true screaming later, once it was assured that the ginger would not die.

After a few minutes or so of gasps and even the occasional sob, the wound was clean to Jonathan's satisfaction. Nigma was relatively quiet as he stitched up and dressed the gash. When it was done, Nigma really _did_ pass out.

...

Eddie woke in patches, his brain and then his leg-oh _god_-and then bits and pieces. His fingers felt worn corduroy beneath them, his back something firm but not hard. His eyes came last. He forced them open with perhaps the most effort he'd ever put into anything. The room was blissfully dim, if blurred, but he knew his own hideout when he saw it, even if it was not one he frequented. He touched his face; his glasses were gone.

"I have them," a soft voice came from somewhere he couldn't see. He jumped and immediately gasped in pain as the involuntary action jostled his leg.

"Oh _god, _don't you have anything for this?"

His glasses were pressed into his hand by long, cold fingers. He slipped them on warily and tried to sit up, elbows digging into what he now remembered was a dog-eared corduroy sofa. The cold hands reappeared, this time connected to the looming form of the Scarecrow. He had done away with his mask and something else was missing. He tried to figure out what wasn't there as Crane helped him into sort of a sitting position. Any chance to exercise his mind, make sure he still had it.

"...Gloves. You had those ratty-ass gloves on but now you don't."

Crane quirked an eyebrow. "Correct. But _some_one bled all over them. I had to _cut_ them off."

"...Oh." If Crane wanted him to apologize, he had another thing coming. But he was already speaking again, and there was a look in those pale blue eyes that Eddie didn't like at _all_.

"You do realize that I most likely saved your life." He nodded at Eddie's injured leg. He looked down at it, the wide band of white bandage that concealed the dully aching wound that would definitely leave a scar.

"...Thanks?" Eddie said tentatively. He was certainly grateful not to be _dead_, but why would Crane not have left him to die the moment he realized that he'd been bluffing about the deadly security system?

"Oh spare me. You_ owe_ me, Edward."

He didn't like that at all. "Owe you what? You want me to stab you and patch you up?"

Crane laughed then-a nasty, low chuckle that sent a cold finger of dread down Eddie's spine.

"All I want," he replied silkily, "Is _answers_."

"...Answers? About what?" Eddie demanded, completely thrown for a loop.

"About anything. A little role reversal for you-_I _ask the questions and _you_ must answer."

"What, you think this is _therapy_ now?"

"If that helps you cope. Or, if you _prefer_," Crane added in a tone that suggested that Eddie would probably _not_ prefer, "...I could just gas you now."

Eddie's mouth was bone dry. He considered his options. _I __**have**__ no options._

"...What do you want to know?"

Crane smiled a singularly unsettling smile. His teeth were whiter than one would expect, but two on the bottom were chipped and there was a noticeable gap between his right canine and incisor.

"Why did you include me in your escape?"

Eddie said, "If I hadn't, you'd have remembered and held a grudge. I don't need any more enemies." But in truth he wasn't sure.

"Liar."

_Damn you._ "Because you could be of some use afterward."

"_Liar._"

"Because I _could!"_ He snapped.

"Liar!" Crane cried again, grinning, eyes laughing wickedly.

"_I don't know!"_ Eddie snapped. "I don't _know_ why and I don't care and _you _are a _dick!_"

He fell into a huffy silence, sagging back into the faded green cushions and panting slightly after his outburst. Crane had the audacity to laugh. Eddie fought back the urge to hit him.

"Now _that_ was the truth. Thank you, Edward. You'll realize that this goes _so_ much easier if you are honest with me."

"My ass," Eddie grumbled. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, wincing as pain jolted through his leg. "Now _you_ tell _me_ something."

Crane's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?"

"I'm curious. And it doesn't seem..." He almost said 'fair' but he was ninety percent sure that Crane would just throw the word back in his face. "..._Interesting_ if you know all about me and I know nothing of you."

The other man actually looked taken aback for a moment. Then he laced his long, spidery fingers under his chin, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Very well. _One_ question. And then it's my turn."

It wasn't much, but it was progress. Eddie considered carefully. What _did _he want to know?

"...Why did you save me?"

Crane looked pensive for a moment before answering.

"Because I was curious as well," he said. "I wanted to know what you have been hiding-" Eddie opened his mouth angrily but Crane held up a hand to silence him. "You _have _been hiding things, Edward. I have been trying to coax it out of you for a _month_, but not once have you revealed more than a tiny fragment of your history."

In spite of himself, Eddie felt a little glow of pride back behind his anger, dread, and resentment. Having someone so invested in him was intensely satisfying. He _was, _after all, a genius worthy of nothing short of _worship_. But this would do in a pinch.

"My turn."

The warm feeling evaporated. Dread and resentment once again ruled the landscape.

"Fine," he sighed.

"Why do you _think_ you brought me along?"

Eddie clenched his teeth against a shout. How many times did Crane want to make him say it?

"I...I don't _know_," he growled, "I _told_ you, I don't know why."

Crane was still smiling that irritating smile that said _'Wrong, guess again.'_. Eddie racked his brain, fumbling with such a simple question. It was almost humiliating.

"I...You..." What _had_ he been thinking? _I __**wasn't **__thinking, that's the problem._ So what had he been _feeling?_

"I...Sort of..._like_ you." He shook his head. "No, that's not true. I don't like _you_, Crane. And I don't think I ever will. But I sort of like your company. You're probably the only person who can keep up with me. And it _would_ be irritating to have you as an enemy." He added, if only to cut through the near-fondness of his speech.

Crane...Laughed. Not the mad cackle of the Joker, nor the previous subtle chuckle, but the sound of it made the hair on the back of Eddie's neck stand up.

But mostly it just irritated him.

"What?" He demanded, "What the hell are you _cackling_ at?"

Crane grinned, leaning forward. Eddie leaned back ever so slightly.

"You. Your utter _blindness_." He edged closer and Eddie found that he couldn't back off any farther.

"What are you talking about? _I'm _the one with the riddles, remember?"

Crane was _definitely_ too close now.

"I'm talking about the fact that you claim to be a genius but you're too stupid to figure out your own motivations."

Eddie's hands balled into fists. "How dare you," he snarled, "How _dare_ you? I am _not_ stupid and we both know it. If I were stupid you'd never have gotten out. You _need_ me, Crane."

"Wrong again, Edward. _You_ need _me_." A long-fingered hand rested on the arm of the sofa where Eddie had propped himself up. Crane's eyes were alight with some sort of fervor. "Don't you realize it, Edward? You _needed_ me. I listened to you, spoke to you. I gave you _attention._ And you're too much of an _attention whore_ to-"

Crane's head jerked back, blood blossomed over his lip. Eddie felt his face twisted in rage, one fist poised to deliver another blow and the other gripping the lapel of Crane's coat. He hadn't even meant to hit him, but it felt incredibly gratifying and he would not shy from another opportunity.

"I've forgiven your previous _slights_, you son of a bitch," Eddie growled, barely aware of the slight dizziness his sudden movement had caused. "But you don't _ever _get to call me that. _Ever."_

'Whore' was everything that Eddie hated-common, dirty, _stupid_, too dumb and weak to think with anything that you couldn't make a baby with. _Slut _was bad enough and he'd been called that many times, but _whore _made his blood boil.

Crane smirked, gingerly probing his lip; his fingers came away bloody. "Call you what? _Whore?"_

The next punch landed solidly on one of Crane's sharp cheekbones.

"I am not a whore," he snarled, "Of _any_ kind, _got it?_ I. Am. _Not._ I have _never_ been one and I never will, and the sooner you get that through your thick skull the less I'm going to screw up that ugly face of yours."

"Oh that's _right,_" Crane hissed, still grinning, "You never took _money_ for your little 'encounters.' I suppose that just makes you a _stupid_-"

Eddie couldn't even form words anymore. He snarled and lashed out again, but Crane caught him around the wrist and held tight when he tried to pull it back. Eddie fell into enraged silence, breathing heavily. He'd already expended most of his strength on the first punch, and they both knew it.

"If you do that again, you're going to overexert yourself. And I'm just going to let you pass out." Possibly for added effect, his free hand pressed a thumb against the wound in Eddie's leg.

He wasn't aware of crying out but he must have as pain burst from the spot and jolted all the way to his hip.

"You bastard," he gasped, "That's what this is about? You're just one of _them_-"

Crane prodded the spot again; Eddie gasped into silence, spots appearing in front of his eyes.

"I couldn't give less of a damn what you screw," Crane said in a _murderously _calm whisper, his face an inch from Eddie's, "I assure you. But what you _fear _is another matter entirely."

It clicked. A cold spasm of terror shot through him.

"_No,_" he began in a desperate whisper. But there was already a needle in Crane's hand, the chamber glowing faintly orange.

"_Yes," _hissed the Scarecrow.


	9. Nine

NINE:

_"Yes,"_ hissed the Scarecrow. Nigma began to struggle feebly, trying to pull away and tumbling down off the sofa in his efforts, but Jonathan's grip held.

"Please don't," the ginger begged, eyes wide and desperate as he stared up at the Scarecrow, "_Please_ don't, I can't-"

The pathetic plea disappeared in a yelp of pain as the needle plunged into his neck.

There were a few seconds of panting silence as the drug worked into his system. Then Nigma's pupils contracted to pinpricks as his eyes glazed over, his pale face twisted suddenly in an expression of terror and anguish.

Scarecrow retreated to the dented folding chair a yard or so back to watch the show.

"N-no," came the tremulous whisper, "_No,_ it's not possible..." Great tears began to form in Nigma's distant eyes. "No, no, _please, _no, oh god..."

Scarecrow watched, intrigued, as the Riddler pressed a trembling fist to his lip. He remained on his knees, huddling there upon the scrubbed concrete with both hands clamped over his mouth, eyes squeezed shut and frightened tears spilling down his pale face as the first terrified sobs racked his weakened frame.

_**Quiet, have to be quiet, if he knows I'm hiding...**__Eddie curled up tighter in his corner of the little closet. Through the yellowed slats, he could see the great hulking shadow that was his father passing, smell the stale beer and sweat. __**So close, too close, he'll hear me, please don't let him hear me...**_

_ "Where are you, you stupid cheating brat?"_

_ The doors crashed open, a huge hand shooting out to grab him by the hair. Eddie screamed in pain and fright as the terrible voice roared in a familiar mix of fury and triumph._

Finally Nigma began to scream, high and keening, as he curled in on himself, cowering against whatever demons reared above him. It never took long with this particular formula.

"_No no no please I'm sorry please I'm so sorry!"_

_ Blows rained down on him from everywhere at once. A booted foot smashed into his ribs. _

_ "-please dad I didn't cheat I promise-" _

_ "-nothing but a stupid little liar just like your mother!" _

_ The belt cracked over his back, tearing the pathetically thin shirt and the flesh beneath. _

_ "-I'm not lying I swear I didn't-" _

_ "-whore of a mother shoulda had the god damn abortion like I told her to-" _

So there it was. Scarecrow sighed contentedly, leaning back in the chair. It really _was_ worth the effort, he decided. Not a unique story, to be sure, but Nigma scared very well. his screams were certainly satisfying, as effeminate as he had imagined, and urgent but not shrill. He continued to plead with the hallucination of his father, twitching as imagined blows struck him.

_He's going to bust those stitches at this rate. _Jonathan felt a faint stab of annoyance at the thought of his hard work undone-literally-but simply _having _the thought irritated him more than the thought itself. He did the mental equivalent of beating it back with a stick. He would, of course, see to the leg after this, but there was no point in spoiling a good show.

But naturally, after a time, Nigma began to come down from the drug. It was difficult to tell at first because he remained in much the same position as before, huddled in a sobbing heap, but after a while it became clear that his hallucination had mostly faded.

Jonathan stood, stretching luxuriously. He sidled casually over to the place where Nigma still lay, shaking pitifully.

"Thank you, Edward," he purred. "That was quite a show."

Nigma looked up, fear still evident on his face. That was the wonderful thing about this particular formula, Jonathan decided; after the initial effects wore off the subject retained a lingering sense of nonspecific dread for a half-hour or so.

"What...I don't..." Nigma whined, "You..." He gasped suddenly, hand flying to his leg. The faint finger of annoyance returned as Jonathan saw the dark stain slowly spreading over the snowy white bandaging.

"You appear to have ruptured a stitch." He knelt beside the ginger, reaching for it. The drugged man slapped his hand away with a terrified "No, don't touch me!"

"You are in no position to give orders, Edward." He walked his fingers up the man's leg. "I could touch you anywhere I pleased..." Nigma's eyes widened.

It was true. Nigma-_all _of him-was at his disposal. For a moment, he actually considered doing it-taking _full_ advantage. But only to see the damage done to Nigma's fragile mind.

"...But I won't," Jonathan continued, taking the wandering hand away. "To be honest, the thought has never appealed to me." This was because, as far as he knew, he had no _leanings_ whatsoever toward men, but for effect he added, "It would be rather like being the youngest child inheriting his brothers' old _bicycle_. You've been passed down so many times that you have rather lost your charm. If you ever _had_ any."

Nigma's face twisted in a strangely satisfying combination of dread and anger. The ginger bit his lip against some retort, the gap between his front teeth catching on the chapped flesh.

"...I _hate_ you," he finally muttered. Tears still leaked from his eyes, but these were of mostly anger. "You _bastard_. I should've left you to _rot_ in Arkham, you sick motherf-"

"But you _didn't,_ did you?" Jonathan could feel the grin on his face, and noted smugly that Nigma's visage was once again dominated by fear. "The argument could be made that you brought this on _yourself,_ couldn't it?"

He could see the realization dawn on Nigma's face. It was best to walk away now, leave the thought to fester. Jonathan turned his back, headed for the desk on the other side of the cavernous space to record his observations.

He had only taken three steps before he heard Edward break down into fresh sobs behind him.


	10. Ten

TEN:

For the second time in he didn't know how many days, Eddie awoke on the faded, corduroy sofa. His head was throbbing almost as bad as his leg.

"You will be relieved to know that you did not actually damage your stitches."

He sat up at once, ignoring the screams of protest from his entire body. _How arrogant do you have to be..._And there was Crane, across the room, sitting at the shabby desk in a pool of lamplight, pouring over a book.

"...Who the_ hell _do you think you are?"

Crane didn't even look up. Eddie shook his head to clear out the echoes of _'...Lying little cheater, wish your mother had...'_ His leg threatened to collapse under him when he stood, but for once he found he could ignore the pain. It didn't matter. What mattered was the tattered monster sitting at a desk across the room.

"You shouldn't be walking on that leg," Crane said, sounding almost bored as he turned a page.

"But I suppose hallucinating and writhing in terror is okay?" He could feel the anger welling up inside him; it had been sitting at the back of his mind while he collected himself, but now it rushed up through him in boiling waves. He limped forward, and with each step the pain in his leg seemed to fade.

"The writhing was completely optional." Crane was feet away and he still hadn't looked up from the damn book.

"Oh, ex_cuse_ me, I must have missed the fucking memo," Eddie snapped, reaching the desk at last. "And what is so damn interesting that you won't even look me in the face when I'm talking to you?"

"_Cyrano de Bergerac_," Crane replied coolly, turning another page. "The Anthony Burgess interpretation is quite-"

Eddie jerked the book from his hands, fighting the urge to recoil when his fingers brushed Crane's. _They're like ice..._

The former doctor finally looked up, expression quite casual.

"Yes, Edward?" He asked, with a languid air that suggested they might be discussing the weather, rather than the abhorrent violation he'd subjected Eddie to. It only angered him more.

"How can you just sit there and ignore me after what you did?" Eddie demanded, hands balling into fists. "I know you're not even sorry, are you? Or are you _afriad_ to face-"

"Careful, Edward," Crane snapped suddenly, blue eyes flashing. The part of Eddie's brain that favored breaking the man's nose was growing steadily more insistent. "I was merely too engrossed in the scene to pay you any more attention than you deserve." A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. "But I do thank you for the _delightful_ show, Edward."

It felt like Crane had slapped him. He braced his hands on the desk, noting with annoyance that he was shaking.

"I never liked you," he began. Crane looked like he might laugh but Eddie didn't care. Crane was going to listen to every word he had to say, whatever he thought. "I never liked you even before I knew you were a..." He searched for a word ugly enough, powerful enough to perhaps beat some sort of understanding through Crane's thick skull. And then the word rose up like bile in his throat, a bitter, heavy oil that coated his tongue and threatened to choke him. He spat it out with all the venom he could muster.

"_Rapist._"

Crane's eyes narrowed ever so slightly; he did not reply, but Eddie noted with satisfaction that all trace of mirth had disappeared. He said it again.

"You're a _rapist_."

"Is that so?" Crane hissed. It wasn't a question, it was a challenge.

"You know it is, you sick psychotic bastard. What you did-what you _do_, it's _rape_. You-I-" Eddie couldn't have stopped now even if he wanted to. The words burst from him of their own volition and all he could do was hunker down and direct the flow.

"You're a mind-rapist," he continued, dimly aware that he was beginning to shout. "That's all you are; you're not a _scientist_, you just moonlight as one to hide what you really are, the lowest scum of the earth, a sick sadist who gets off on shredding other people's minds!"

Crane quirked an eyebrow, the faintest trace of a smirk playing about his lips, but it was empty, cold. The next words were ice.

"Is that all?"

"_No,_" Eddie hissed, enraged, leaning right up into Crane's horsey face. It was entirely possible that he might get dosed again for this, but there was no room for fear anymore. "Your mind is a roiling mass of ugliness, your soul is a latrine, you smell like a hospital and your _mother was a whore!"_

Crane really did smile then.

"Pots and kettles, Edward."

Eddie reacted without thinking; he simply reached out and slapped Crane as hard as he could. Crane chuckled darkly, touching long, bony fingers to the angry pink mark blossoming across his cheek.

"For one who so openly berates the Batman for his brute force, you are rather quick to come to blows. Or perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised." Crane leaned so close that Eddie could have counted his freckles.

"After all," he added, his blue eyes alight with malice, "Like father, like son."

Eddie's hand flew up again. Crane smirked and presented his other cheek.

_Like father, like son._

He lowered the hand. The thought of touching Crane was suddenly repulsive and he was already beginning to feel sick from standing on his injured leg for so long as it throbbed out its dull ache. He turned.

"Running away, Edward? I had assumed you'd want the last word," Crane called, "What a pleasant surprise for me."

He didn't look back, _couldn't_, just kept his eyes on the sofa that suddenly seemed leagues away.

"I don't care."

The leg throbbed more and more with every limping step, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that it was _away_ from Crane.

"Don't you, Edward? Really?"

One more step, then another, and another. He clenched a fist against the pain.

"I don't have any more to say to you."

Just a few more steps.

"Because you know that you have no way to _win?_"

"Because the thought of speaking to you makes me _sick_."

Eddie collapsed gratefully onto the faded cushions. He closed his eyes, trying to block out Crane's high, harsh laughter. But he'd never been able to shut his mind down.

_Just shut up, just shut up and go away._

The laughter was getting closer.

_Go away, leave me alone you monster, I don't ever want to be close to that much evil._

The laughter subsided into chuckles, right beside him. He opened his eyes wearily.

Crane was looming over him, leaning down close with one hand against the back of the sofa and the other braced just beside Eddie's head.

"I don't know why you're so angry with _me_."

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Tell me, Edward," Crane murmured silkily, tilting his head to one side, "How much do you remember?"

_Lie, Eddie, lie to him, don't tell him anything...No. What's the point?_

"Everything."

Crane grinned. "Then you'll remember what I told you." He leaned close, so close that for a moment Eddie was afraid that he'd decided on a physical counterpart to the earlier mental rape. But no, only close enough to speak the next, quiet words right into his ear. "_Then you remember that you brought this on yourself."_

Eddie rose up a little, enough to hiss back at him,

"_I don't care_."

Crane rose, mouth curled in that familiar smug, sadistic grin. Eddie sighed, partly from relief and partly from exhaustion. He found that more than anything else, he wanted _sleep_. Not chemically-induced or passed-out, but real _rest_.

"...I'm going to sleep now," he sighed, hoping his face showed all the disgust he felt. "I imagine I'll be out for a long time. And when I wake up..." Crane's eyes searched his face. "...You will be gone. I don't care where you go, just _go._ Otherwise..." He searched his exhausted mind for a threat powerful enough to frighten the self-proclaimed Master of Fear. None came. He settled for the truth.

"...Otherwise I'll show you just how inventive I can be." Crane didn't respond, and Eddie didn't mind in the slightest. He closed his eyes. His leg throbbed dully. And he found himself once again circling the drain of consciousness.

He didn't dream.

...

It was dark when Eddie woke. He sat up, body bemoaning every movement-though not as much as before. He groped for the lamp on the floor beside the sofa, noticing that his glasses were still on. The switch clicked and the light blinded him for a moment, so it was a few seconds before he realized that there was something beside the . He picked it up without thinking.

Cyrano looked up at him from the faded cover with sad, knowing eyes. There was a note stuck just below them.

'_Thank you for your business. If you would like to make an appointment...' _There was a number below.

Eddie almost shredded the impudent little paper.

But something held him back. Instead, he simply folded it up and tucked it neatly into the book. Not today, or in the next month or even the next year. But he had to admit, however grudgingly that some day, perhaps, the Scarecrow's services would be useful. And there was always revenge to consider.

Perhaps.


End file.
